


The geometry of lies

by icecubesteverogers



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, murdering twins adventures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 05:08:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6270793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icecubesteverogers/pseuds/icecubesteverogers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were driving on the night horror’s carcass. The corpse, quietly rotting under Ronan’s hectares of farmland, had been long forgotten, only disturbed now and then by a worm eating the remaining flesh and spitting it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The geometry of lies

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for the lexical/grammar mistakes!

They were driving on the night horror’s carcass. The corpse, quietly rotting under Ronan’s hectares of farmland, had been long forgotten, only disturbed now and then by a worm eating the remaining flesh and spitting it out. The weather, anyway, wasn’t suitable for a resurrection. To raise the dead required to wait for the worse storm in the short history of Henrietta. Gansey believed it to be an ancient city full of whiny forests and rusty objects, but Ronan knew in his bones that the legends had begun when his father had written the first line. It went like this: until the age of seven, the air of Henrietta was all Ronan had ever known, but on the fifth of January of 1975, his father had stepped for the first time on the America soil (he knew the exact date because Niall liked to tell the story over and over again like it was man's first step on the moon). He used to picture a young Neil, the kind of guy that didn’t need a push to leap, driving off into Old Dominion, Henrietta-an unspoiled landscape for him only to take-rolling on in front of him.

It came as a surprise when it turned out that Neil was made of flesh and bones after all. When he died, his screams did not make the sky tremble and the stars were not buried unceremoniously in mud. What happened instead was that Matthew had read the eulogy, Ronan had let the fetid smell of blood pollute his mind, and Declan, with the empty eyes of the ostracized, had fixed his gaze on the dome.

Ronan wasn’t stupid enough to wait for Niall to turn off the road to heaven. There were no storms, no earthquakes violent enough to bring back gods.

“You’re leaving blood stains on the wheel” Adam said evenly, almost imperiously, even though Ronan could hear his heart kicking furiously against his chest. That was one of those things he did. Being scared but still talking shit. Gansey was a human anachronism, but Adam was a     creature out of time and space. Love, Ronan had soon discovered, was a very corrosive thing.

“My car, my mess.”

The conversation was saturated with the sound of the wheels clapping against the rocks. The roads leading to the Barnes were not, per se, mortiferous, nothing the BMW couldn’t survive to: Ronan made them deadly. Whether he thought the car was a mobile cemetery or that he and Adam were invisible, the result stayed the same: Ronan took abrupt turns, seemed resolute to drive on every hole and keep an eye on the stereo rather than on the road.

When they stepped out of the car, Ronan’s unaffected love for the screams of bagpipes became apparent to anyone in their vicinity, except of course, the body in the trunk. What Ronan hadn’t added was ‘my dreams, my shit.’ But upon waking up, Adam had insisted on accompanying him, even after Ronan had announced him with petulance that he could wipe his ass himself, and they had driven from St Agnes to the Barns in the middle of the night.

“Do you think we should make a fire instead? The house is isolated, no one could see it,” Adam said, looking ridiculous and wonderful in his large boxer shorts and thin shirt, with his battered sneakers and his arms crossed. Ronan was mirroring his appearance, except that he wore a blood-spattered windbreaker that Nike would never include in their spring collection from now on.

Ronan knew what Adam was doing: he was trying to gain time. But they had to open the trunk before the sunrise.

“Oh sure, just let me get the box of matches. It’s like burning incense sticks, right?”

Adam looked at him wordlessly. There was something about him, not matter what shitty outfits he wore, that always made him look dignified.

“How the hell are we supposed to make a fire big enough?”

“Fine”, Adam said angrily, “let’s dig a hole.”

Ronan opened up the trunk and stared at the body for a few seconds, before lifting the shoulders out of the car. Adam took the legs, and together, they lowered the body in the ground. It stunk, and as they quickly covered it synchronously, Ronan thought that it was close to making love. He awkwardly averted his gaze from Adam, and fixed it on the Gray Man’s face.

“Write down your questions on a piece of paper”, Maura said the morning after, as she cut the cards surgically, taking five cards and putting the pile on her left.

“Ronan. You too.”

This was Gansey at his worst, a violin concerto in D flat. Ronan took great care in scissoring his strings with a dismissive ‘cut the crap’.

“Jesus”, Calla said, “who pissed in his cornflakes this morning?”

Now that Yoda was dead, Ronan observed, Calla was even more exasperating. Restless. He could relate. Twenty-one minutes and crumbs of seconds separated Monmouth Manufactoring from 300 Fox way. Now that he was there in front of him, terribly alive and gaze downcast, it seemed absurd to have thought that the Gray Man had been really dead.

It was like witnessing the wrong resurrection.

**

Ronan had never been angry with God. The truth was in the absurd, in his father’s death, in the counterfeit that were the genetics of his mother and his brother, in the possibility of impossibility running in the veins of Adam Parrish’s hands. Job, on his pile of shit, on his pile of pain, had said: ‘no, I won’t give up on God’, he had risen, rented his mantel and shaved his head, and so in his prayers Ronan said: “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”

Up-close, anger was not a bonfire instead of nerves, or something as theatrical as broken phalanges. It was an intricate network of half-moon under aching eyes, of silent roads, of bugs tucked under his pillow, of voices that sung-song through the floorboards of 300 Fox Way ‘Maura, aura, Aurora’, of texts from Declan that read: “I’m in town”, and were never answered.

Declan’s downfall was that he had said: “no, I won’t give up on Ronan”.

At night, he summoned body-machines fed with kerosene and women who screamed their expiration dates. On occasions, the puddles of blood drew his attention away from the enchanted trees and the sarcophagus. How satisfying it was. This was exactly what Ronan demanded when he entered his dreams: the end of the world.

The apocalypse had been postponed since Adam and his cheekbones had entered his life, which constituted, if you asked Ronan, a good reason to be angry.

“Three endings”, Adam said, his index tapping against the DVD case of Lost Horizon where a line read _‘_ include bonus features, including three alternate endings.’ The idea seemed appealing to him, which, Ronan mentally noted, as Ronald Colman, surrounded by a shit-ton of snow, ascended a mountain, was disconcerting. Three was too much possibilities. Three was the sleepers, the shamrock and the triskel, the union of the earth, the sea and the sky. It could not escape its own sacredness. Three was he, Matthew and Declan. Declan’s greatest sin, the one that no expensive dry cleaner could wash away, was that sadness had not been part of his grieving process. Three was Father Alan finishing the Lord’s Prayer, Ronan executing the sign of the cross with hast, and thinking that it was a crime that he could not forgive, even on Sundays. Resentment and forgiveness were two magnets that only work perfectly together in another kind of parish.

”Lazy writing,” Ronan replied, briefly turning around and looking up at him.

Adam looked down, perched on Ronan’s bed, his father’s will resting on his lap. Death never strayed too far away from him. Ronan, who also never strayed too far away from him, sat on the floor. His back turned to him, he was playing with his leather bands, sulkily or tiredly, Adam couldn’t tell. The tattoo peaking out of his shirt gave him no indication. Just like the will, he was a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in lines of ink. But his shaved head was still shaved, and his long lashes were still long. 6lbs of anger and twenty-three chromosomes polished by magic. Adam was attracted to each one of his atoms.

“At some point you got to choose,” Ronan parroted.

This was Niall Lynch’s Gettysburg Address speaking through him, all rolling r’s and deep blue eyes digging in Ronan’s pupils (what he had tried to extract from it, god only knew): “C'mon up here, Ronan.”

He had come back from the barn of the herd, and on that day he had been a farmer, a quarter of a dreamer, just a man sorting the rotten potatoes that he had cropped in the fields earlier. They could have easily buy a machine to do the tedious work for him, but Niall seemed to like the process of inspecting for scabs, bruises, cuts, deformities, and throw them in the chicken kook. The good ones were for the winter stock.

“Lynches always take the hardest decisions”, he’d said, in the same way he had said “I’m sorry for your loss” at Mr.Cosgrove’s funeral, two months before that. Mr.Cosgrove had been the inseminator and the vet of the Barns for six years.

“Taking risks, Ronan, that’s the secret.”

It didn’t matter that Niall smelt of cow dung. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t fooled Ronan: every silences were rehearsed, he knew. His father was many things, too many things, but certainly not a gifted actor. Still, the desired effect had worked: Ronan, who, at that time, liked secrets, had hung on his every word.

“Did you think I married your mother in a snap of a finger?”

Ronan thought of Mrs.Cosgrove and the way she had connected her lips to the wooden coffin, not caring if it was cold and hard against her nose. He thought of his mother, who had not cared about anything at all at the funeral of her husband. He thought of his father, pumped with chemicals and covered in what had looked like a hundred layers of make-up. He thought of the his nails, still incrusted with blood, five days after their burial session. He thought of Declan, who, at the age of fifteen or sixteen, had said that his father had inseminated his mother like a cow. Something inside Ronan twitched a little at the memory. Ronan hated him a little. Hated him.

“Choosing three endings is a choice”, Adam said, the corner of his lip lifting wickedly.

It was so easy, then, to remember that morning of September, the wind already hollowing, shaking the windows of the classroom, autumn bringing back war, his head resting on his table, his eyes closed, then wide open, and meeting Adam Parrish’s eyes for the first time, his own head laid on his table, sitting in the middle row, waiting for the first class of the year to begin. He already had the face of vendetta under the elegant traits of a seventeen year old and he answered questions with an arm extended like a warrior. Ronan had figured he was the type of guy who had already licked the stamps for his college applications.

Adam had smiled at him, a vulnerable, hesitative gesture. It was only later, much later, that Ronan had realized he had kept the details in his memory. He had watched, not smiling, not glaring. Not choosing. Assessing. This was safe.

“Well then, I choose not to choose.” Ronan said, his mind kilometers away from his bedroom. That was his gift: choosing to kill the Gray Man in his world, but choosing to let him live. _At some point you got to choose,_ Ronan heard again in the recesses of his mind. But his father was not here, and whose fault was it, huh?

“Your rendition of human intelligence is pretty good, but not really convincing.”

Ronan loved him a little. Loved him.

“And your eye bags look like they had sex with others eye bags.”

“That’s not the answer you’d expect from the king of pontificated assholes.”

“It may surprise you, Parrish, but I’ve never met the Pope. And I’m not kidding. In fact, as soon as you leave, I’m going to write a haiku about it. The legendary love story of Adam Parrish’s eye bags.”

Adam nudged his shoulder with his foot. Ronan grabbed it. There was a tangle of arms and legs, until Adam rested both of his feet on his shoulders. Adam was like him sometimes, but with a better eloquence of his dexterity. He felt a pang of envy.

“Don’t put your two dollars socks on me,” Ronan shouted, but made no move to destroy the throne that Adam has created for himself. Like always, Adam hadn’t come to conquer, but Ronan was surrendering anyway. He scratched one of his toes with his index, took a breath, took another. Adam didn’t bolt like a frightened horse. Ronan’s heart clenched like a fist.

“Did you know-“, Adam began.

(Did you know that a kid’s heart is about the size of a fist?)

“Bob!” the TV screamed.

This was Sondra, waving to her friend. The last ending. Conway was waving back, flashing his white teeth at her. They looked like idiots. As if on cue, huge bells chimed, driving off evil spirits, and the screen went black, erasing Conway's retreating figure. Ronan was also out of frame now: Adam had put his feet back on the bed. 

“The torture is over,” Ronan announced after a large swing of beer. There was a snap, and another can was opened. He crushed the old one in his hands, passed it silently to Adam, who threw it in the bin. These were good bears, the kind that his father used to buy.

“We could have read a summary, you know. Instead of watching this abysmal garbage. Oh keep your mouth shut Parrish; I know what you’re going to say.”

“Mr. Barker is not as dumb as he looks.”

“Debatable”, Ronan said, at the same moment his gaze landed on his father’s will. It was mud-flecked and crumpled. He had very probably manipulated the piece of paper more than the totally of his textbooks.

“It was already on your bed”, Adam rushed in to explain, feigning embarrassment.

“Whatever, you can keep it.”

He took another sip.

“I’m sure it can make a good bedtime story for the salaried magicians of this world.”

The will was not in any way a good bedtime story. It told a story that was full of knots and holes and even more knots. It read: ‘Article 2.A .I give my interest in the real property which was my residence at the time of my death (“the barns”), together with any insurance on such property, to my middle son.’

“Can you see your own death?” Adam had asked.

And she had replied-

He did not like to think about Persephone. It made him trap kaleidoscopes of saucer-eyes in mirrors like mosquitoes in amber. One time, on his way home from school, he had seen one-winged sequin butterflies flying out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t know if it was Cabeswater’s clarion call, or if his own magic, whatever he called his magic, was becoming defective. It seemed absurd, like magic was supposed to be perennial; but then again, he remembered that he danced to the tune of Cabeswater. He didn’t make the rules. Lately, sleep caught him like a harpoon during the most inopportune times. Countless days went by where he wondered if Cabeswater had finally taken hold of him like it had annexed a territory. Adam kept a tally of things that indicated he was not going insane.

“And what are you? A graywaren on parental leave?”

He jerked his chin at Chainsaw, who was resolutely ignoring him.

“You can call me by my Christian name. And no- it’s a lifestyle, not a job.”

“Newton's third law. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

He pushed Ronan forward to illustrate the theory. Ronan swore in response. The touch of his feet, back again on his back, made him feel like a gnome was moving his organs around. His body was a goddamn betrayer.

“You take, there’re consequences. You do realize you’re renting Cabeswater, right? You should at least pay energy taxes.”

There was no denying that Cabeswater played favorites, but telling Adam would be tantamount to an admittance of guilt. He wasn’t ready for this conversation. He wasn’t ready for any conversation. He was ready for kissing.

“My money comes from Cabeswater, it’s a vicious cycle.”

“So your father really never worked?”

He squirmed a little, so that Adam’s foot hung in the air, and turned his face away from him. He ignored the question and replied instead:

“What if we carried out biodegradability tests on you?”

Adam gave him another push to show that he would drop the subject, but gave him one of his looks. The one that said ‘that boy right here is interesting’. Ronan had grown to know it well; it was one that he enjoyed imagining at night like a lepidopterist admiring his collection of butterflies.

Adam kept his gaze on him. He wondered if the angle was right, if Adam was looking at his good profile. But the moment finished as soon as it had started.

“You’re giving me ideas. _Write about a moment that changed your life_.”

He could easily picture in his head the post-it on the mirror of his tiny bathroom. Adam wondered if “bargaining my body to a magical forest” would be an appropriate answer for a college application. Stanford would appreciate the originality; Harvard would regret the absence of sincerity. Ronan could see him dissecting his thoughts and watched him for a moment before interrupting him.

“When we measured Blue’s height.”

Adam gave a laugh, sighed, and said: “I should go, my shift is in one hour.”

That night, Ronan dreamt of a knight. He wasn’t mounting on horseback, nor was he wearing an armor. His manners, too, were unchivalrous _._ He spat and barely avoided the lance he was holding outside the window of his car. His right arm laid lazily on the wheel. Ronan had arrived shortly before him, his black vehicle contrasting starkly with the white one. His lance was not visible, but the sound of the engine was unmistakable.

In his dream, Noah wasn’t on the passenger seat like the last time. They were alone, just him and his need to destroy. They drove their way to the other end of the road, this strange pair and the white knight. The black knight aimed for the shoulder. It was a good choice: the wood tore through the flesh of the opponent as easily as a needle through a piece of clothing. Above them, Chainsaw was not cawing, she was singing, and with her wings she was separating the clouds.

Adam, who had appeared at his side, was different as well. He was cheering for him but his voice seemed far, far away, reverberating over and over through the space like a mantra. His usually tanned skin had the electric paleness of storms, and his steps matched the translucency of his body: he was as loud as bare feet on a rug. A boy of dust, crumbling bit by bit.

*

That night, Adam thought of hands on his feet, travelling, going up, up, up.


End file.
